


rather ashes than dust

by liginamite



Category: Preacher (TV)
Genre: Angel Wings, Fallen Angels, Hell Trauma, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mild Gore, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-20
Updated: 2017-06-20
Packaged: 2018-11-16 09:35:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11250417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/liginamite/pseuds/liginamite
Summary: There are consequences for leaving Heaven, and there are even more consequences for going to Hell.





	rather ashes than dust

**Author's Note:**

> i have about a week before seth rogen fails me yet again, so i'm gonna stamp around in his sandbox a bit. enjoy.

_"I would rather be ashes than dust!  
I would rather that my spark should burn out in a brilliant blaze than it should be stifled by dry-rot."_ -Jack London

-

Fiore keeps scratching at his shoulders.

It’s not such a noticeable change at first. Mostly it’s like a flag rustling in the wind; always in the peripheral but never enough to draw attention. They’ve kept to themselves mostly, since they got to Earth, since they got to Texas, waiting to hear back from the preacher and DeBlanc’s too busy reading to really pay it any mind right away.

Eventually, though, it catches his eye fully, and he puts the Bible down to frown.

“What’re you doing?”

Fiore’s sitting on the edge of the bed, a look of frustration knitting his brow. He’s tossed his jacket aside and he’s unbuttoned at least three or four of the fastenings on his shirt, has undone the tie, is reaching past his collar to rub at the jut of his shoulderblades. He looks uncomfortable, twisting awkwardly as he mutters, “nothing.”

DeBlanc scoffs--” _nothing_ ”--and sets the Bible down, tilts his head as he watches Fiore wriggle for a moment. It arches his back as he struggles a little, shakes his shoulders and then huffs loudly, lets his hands fall again to rest on his thighs as he glares at the tacky wallpaper.

“Don’t look like nothing.”

“Well it is,” Fiore snaps, and DeBlanc raises his eyebrows. The surefire way to tell when Fiore doesn’t have his wits about him; he gets snippy and tight, mouth even thinner and voice sharp and aggravated. “It’s nothing.”

DeBlanc can’t help the sigh, sharp and tired, before he slips off his own bed, makes his way over. Fiore stares straight ahead at the wall, doesn’t move as DeBlanc starts to unbutton the rest of his shirt, carefully slips it off. Underneath Fiore is pale and dotted here and there with little brown spots, like constellations. Humans call them birthmarks, he knows, and wonders vaguely why either of them would have any.

He climbs up onto the bed after that, rests down on his knees behind Fiore. The muscles underneath his skin jump when he reaches out, when he digs his thumbs hard into the softness just below the bone. He has little birthmarks here, too. It’s remarkable, really, and DeBlanc takes note of the way that Fiore’s shoulders rise and fall. It reminds him of a wave, or the gentle flicker of a candle.

“You’ve been down here for too long,” he mutters, and Fiore muscles twitch again. “Can I see?”

He doesn’t have to look at Fiore’s face to know that he’s scowling, not at DeBlanc but more at himself; mouth thinned out, nostrils flared, eyes wide. It’s the sort of face Fiore’s always made when he’s unhappy, and it’s somehow brilliant that it could be translated so well onto the face of a human being. He can practically see the deliberation going on in Fiore’s head. It’s dangerous, they both know.

And then finally,

“Fine.”

Fiore’s voice is still tight, but it’s acquiescence, and DeBlanc’s grateful for that at least. He rolls onto the balls of his feet and leans back, nearly tips over before he can regain his balance. It’s far too human of a thing for him to do, he knows, but DeBlanc’s also been better at pretending than Fiore ever has. Comes with the territory of being a demon, after all.

For a moment it feels as if nothing’s going to happen at all, but there’s a static in the air that raises the hair on DeBlanc’s arms, that crackles sharply in the room before slowly the air shimmers in front of him. It’s the haze above a fire, the sparkle of the sun’s rising on the ocean water.

Fiore’s wings come into view, glorious and vividly white in the dim lighting of the room, and DeBlanc’s breath catches despite himself.

They seem to suck away any other vibrance that could exist. He’s always seen them in the realm of Heaven, where the angel’s jurisdiction fell, where wings merely existed. He’s seen them on every angel, and he’s seen Fiore’s plenty of times. But here, on the earthly plane, they’re ethereal and bright, almost a white so pure that it would defy all definition. They arc above him, brush against the ceiling without any trouble whatsoever, surround him in a cocoon of feathers and down and a soft glow. Surely humans wouldn’t be able to stand the sight of them--DeBlanc’s mildly surprised he hasn’t burst into flames himself. They sparkle gold and silver, sparkle all the colors of the rainbow when Fiore shifts.

It’s so strange to see them in this new light that DeBlanc almost doesn’t notice the feathers that slowly float down onto the duvet. But he does notice them, and he picks one up, turns it over in his hand. It has less of a shimmer, and the edges… the edges have turned grey, have begun to fade.

“They ache,” Fiore says quietly, and there’s that tightness in his voice. DeBlanc stares at the feather in his hand. His stomach turns at the thought of what could happen if they stay down here for much longer. He’s heard of fallen angels; they fade away, miserable and crying for Heaven, crying to a Father that won’t answer them. He’s heard their wails before. He knows.

“It’s all right, my dear,” he says, keeps his tone light as he can. “We’ll be back soon enough.”

The wings shake around him as Fiore lowers his head, and slowly DeBlanc begins to card his fingers through the feathers to groom them back into place. They’re soft as velvet, and cool to the touch, and the static settles just underneath his skin as he makes his way through the lot.

A feather comes off with his hand, and if Fiore notices, he says nothing. DeBlanc silently places it next to the others.

-

The first time DeBlanc had touched Fiore’s wings, things had been slightly different, though in many ways it had also been exactly the same.

“Everything alright?” DeBlanc asks. They’re sitting at the dinner table in the little house provided for them; Genesis sits in the middle, chirping happily in its domicile, not a care in the world. But Fiore, by contrast, keeps shifting in his chair, keeps shaking himself out in a way that almost reminds DeBlanc of a dog. His wings are tucked up against his back, neatly, enough so that DeBlanc almost forgets that they’re even there.

“...it’s my wings,” Fiore says stiffly, still not used to having to spend all his time alone with DeBlanc. Clandestine meetings during the middle of a war, wherein they accidentally created the most powerful force the universe has ever known, sure. On the other hand, mercy forbid he should have to _live_ with him, right? But then, he’ll give Fiore credit; it’s been a little over a month, and he’s warmed up considerably compared to when he used to flee the room every time DeBlanc so much as poked his head in.

An odd one, his angel, but DeBlanc supposes that’s what drew him to Fiore in the first place.

“They giving you trouble?” he asks, tries to sound casual.

“They need grooming,” Fiore mumbles, head still down, and from here DeBlanc can see the pink that’s started to gather in his cheeks. He doesn’t say much, but when he does it always somehow seems to say plenty and yet nothing at all. DeBlanc’s patient, though, and tries to wheedle a little.

“Didn’t know that was a thing that needed doing.”

He gets a nod and another uncomfortable head roll, another shake of Fiore’s torso as he clearly tries to do something about his situation.

“It’s something that angels do,” Fiore explains, won’t look DeBlanc in the eyes. “Straighten each other’s wings out. Gets uncomfortable when the feathers are all over the place, you know.”

Well, DeBlanc _wouldn’t_ know, but it does sound terribly disagreeable to have to deal with, and he watches as Fiore shifts again and makes an unhappy noise. It’s the most words that Fiore’s really said to him all at once since they were condemned to this little white house, the first time that he hasn’t sounded scared or ashamed to speak to him, so DeBlanc figures he could return the favor.

“I suppose that I could do it, yeah?”

He offers the idea up with just a bit of hesitation, tilts his head and raises his eyebrows a little. But there’s a long pause, long enough that DeBlanc starts to feel a bit awkward.

“That would be _inappropriate_.” Fiore finally says the word through his teeth, blinking hard and not looking at DeBlanc at all, like the thought of it physically hurts him. “No.”

DeBlanc shrugs. “Suit yourself.”

He won’t admit to his feelings being hurt; when they first snuck out, met in private, he had thought of touching Fiore’s wings. But it seemed forbidden just on principle, and so he hadn’t even bothered to ask. A demon touching an angel’s wings seems more likely to end with sharp blades and cruel hands. But they’ve done much, much more than just touch since then, and without any sort of cruelty, and even if DeBlanc kept his hands to himself as far as Fiore’s wings were concerned, he still thinks that he’s at least earned Fiore’s _trust_ if nothing else.

But they _are_ hurt, just a bit, from that lack of trust. So DeBlanc pushes himself away from the table, figures he can find something to occupy his time while Fiore keeps his eyes on the floor and keeps shifting awkwardly.

Fiore’s voice breaks the silence when he’s halfway to the door.

“Wait.”

There’s a plea somewhere in the word, and DeBlanc stops where he’s standing, doesn’t move.

Once again, a quiet falls over the little kitchen save for Genesis humming within its little can, and then Fiore speaks again.

“I didn’t mean… I didn’t mean I didn’t want you to,” he says, and DeBlanc sort of wants to laugh at that one. “It’s just-- it’s just--”

“I’m a demon,” DeBlanc says mildly, and he hears the click of Fiore’s teeth as he closes his mouth too fast. “I understand.”

It’s quiet in the room again.

“I’ve never had a demon touch my wings before.” It’s a near whisper, and the odd sound of feathers shaking fills the room. Perhaps he had been hard on him. DeBlanc turns around, finds to his delight that Fiore’s looking _at_ him, looking up, making eye contact with eyes that are too blue, too wide, too earnest. “I don’t know what would happen.”

They stare at each other for a moment before DeBlanc sighs and rubs the back of his neck.

“Well.” He’s not sure. “If anything happens, I’ll stop. Dunno that anything’s going to happen, though.”

Fiore hums thoughtfully, a little _hmph_ of noise before he leans forward, and the pink in his cheeks darkens to a scarlet. His wings shake and then expand to their full length, white and golden, glorious and soft as the finest velvet. It’s an invitation, and DeBlanc manages not to hurry over with too much eagerness.

He almost can’t touch them, once he’s given the option; they’re so beautiful and enormous, he feels like he’s just not _supposed_ to touch them. But now that he’s close enough he can see where the feathers are ruffled, where they’ve folded over each other and shifted out of place. Hesitantly, he runs his palm over the powerful arch of bone on the right one, and Fiore lets out a sigh.

The downy bases are the softest bits of all, cool to the touch and almost fuzzy, and DeBlanc has to resist the urge to shove both hands in as deep as he can. He’s never touched an angel’s wings before, never gotten _close_ enough, and it’s almost greedy how he runs his fingers up and down, straightens some of the wayward ones.

The noise that Fiore makes is relieved, a long exhale that slumps his shoulders as the wings stretch out and he can groan happily. They don’t seem to be bursting into flames from DeBlanc’s touch, or even so much as sizzling, so he continues to straighten them, runs his fingers through where it’s most ruffled. This, in some way, is far more intimate than anything else they’ve gotten up to, and that includes the chirruping, happy little nuisance sitting on the kitchen table.

It doesn’t take very long at all, it turns out. Soon enough DeBlanc thinks he’s got them all facing the way they’re supposed to, and he says out loud, “think I’m all done.”

Fiore rustles his wings a little bit.

“Yeah.”

That’s about all he expects, really, since Fiore’s never been very much the talkative type, but he also doesn’t want to take his hands out of Fiore’s wings just yet. Reluctantly he pulls away, feels a slight static on the tips of his fingers when he does so. They shake again, extend on either side of him and again he marvels at their sheer size, at the power that’s resting underneath muscle and feathers.

“...it looks nice. They look nice,” DeBlanc says, when the silence gets a little awkward again. Slowly the wings start to pull in again, until they're tucked up neatly against Fiore’s back again. DeBlanc watches the movement of it, marvels at how gracefully they move despite their size.

“Thank you,” Fiore says quietly, and DeBlanc thinks it’s for the compliment until Fiore continues, “for helping.”

There’s a pause.

“You’re welcome,” DeBlanc replies, and he knows he sounds pleased. “Happy to help.”

It happens again, a few weeks later. Then again. Soon enough, DeBlanc knows the telltale signs of ruffled wings, and if it becomes a habit before long, neither of them comment on it. He never quite forgets the feeling of it, though, of his fingertips carding through wings like butter.

-

There’s still no word from the preacher. Mostly out of a need for something to do, they go to one of the little diners a couple miles outside the town. DeBlanc can tell something’s off; he’s known Fiore for centuries, knows when he’s feeling shit and when he’s feeling fine. Now, he just sits across from DeBlanc and stares at the speckled tabletop, eyebrows furrowed. DeBlanc watches him curiously.

Finally he leans forward, after their waitress has brought their waters and gotten their orders.

“What’s wrong, love?” he says quietly. “Your wings again?”

Save for the flick of his eyes to meet DeBlanc’s, Fiore doesn’t move.

“No.”

Well, eye contact is definitely more than he was expecting, but DeBlanc can tell that there’s worry there, that there’s an anxious thrumming through Fiore’s veins that has him so on edge. Maybe it’s the light of the diner, but his eyes look sunken, look like there are dark bruises underneath.

DeBlanc squints at him, trying to understand. Fiore watches his movements, his bright blue eyes locked with DeBlanc’s. When he speaks, there’s a tension in his neck.

“I’m... tired.”

“...what?” DeBlanc can’t help the incredulity in his tone. “You don’t get _tired._ Angels don’t get tired.”

“I _know_.” There’s anger and frustration in Fiore’s voice, as well as an underlying fear. “But I am. I’m tired.”

DeBlanc shakes his head, confused. To be physically exhausted, sure, that’s one thing. They’ve been beaten to unholy hell and chopped into pieces and even shot, but to be _tired_ is another thing entirely. It doesn’t seem plausible. Doesn’t seem right. It’s as he said; angels don’t get tired. But looking at Fiore, he can see it now. The dark circles, the pallor of his skin, the way his shoulders are slumped. He looks exhausted.

They sit in a silence that hasn’t been this uncomfortable in a long, long time. Fiore’s eyes finally leave his, go back to staring at the table until their waitress brings over their food, sets down the two burgers and cheerfully asks if they needed anything else.

“Yes, please,” DeBlanc says, and tries to smile up at her. “A coffee for my friend would be lovely.”

“Sure thing, honey,” she replies cordially, and winks at Fiore. “You look like you’ve been through the ringer. I’ll make sure it’s extra strong.”

To DeBlanc’s surprise, Fiore looks up at her as well.

“Thank you,” he says, in that tone of his, in the one that means he’s not quite sure if his response is adequate. But she smiles at him and strides away, and DeBlanc watches as Fiore glances down at his burger. He’s chewing the inside of his lip. There’s another, deeper pit growing in DeBlanc’s stomach as he watches, as he realizes what a human gesture that is. They’ve been down here for too long.

Their waitress comes back a minute or two later, sets the mug of black coffee down in front of Fiore with another smile. Again, he says thank you, and then peers into cup with his lips pursed in thought. DeBlanc watches as he lifts it, takes a curious sip, and then immediately twists his face in disgust.

“That’s _revolting._ ”

DeBlanc can’t help the chuckle as he reaches for the sugar packets by the ketchup, rips open six or seven of them and dumps them in a grainy waterfall.

“Try it with this.”

“You’re the one with the sweet tooth, not me,” Fiore mutters, but obediently takes another sip. Again his face scrunches up, but he swallows the mouthful and then says, “it’s… better. I still prefer tea.”

“It’ll help you stay awake for a bit,” DeBlanc explains, and finally picks up his burger. “At least, that’s what I’ve heard. Never really tried it before, ‘least not to stay awake.”

“Humans are bizarre,” Fiore complains, but takes another, deeper drink. DeBlanc laughs again around his bite of food, watches as Fiore sighs and puts the mug down, tucks into his own burger with no small amount of eagerness.

"You'll get the hang of it."

It’s not until later, when Fiore’s finally given into the exhaustion and he’s fallen asleep on the too-thin pillows, that DeBlanc realizes he must’ve been hungry, too. He sighs, scratches at his head for a moment before he tugs out the blankets from under Fiore’s lanky limbs, climbs into the bed with him and buries them both in warm sheets. He can sleep if he wants to, even if he doesn’t need it, so sleep he does.

When he wakes in the morning, feathers litter the bed, and Fiore’s still asleep on his stomach.

-

Of course, DeBlanc doesn’t think of Fiore’s wings when his human body burns in the fires of Hell. He doesn’t really have time to think of anything.

But when he sees them again, Fiore is glowing, Fiore is glory and power and his wings are expanded to their full span, intimidating and fury incarnate. The demons howl around them and Fiore screams back at them, not in his human form but in his true form, and he is as terrifying as he is glorious. DeBlanc wants to stare at him, but he covers his eyes instead, wonders if they’ll melt out of his skull.

Fiore stands in front of DeBlanc, makes a barrier between him and the other demons, and Fiore’s hand burns around DeBlanc’s wrist as he grabs him, as his wings flap around them.

The world turns white, and all fades into silence.

DeBlanc is damn sick of silence.

-

When the silence fades, however, that in many ways is worse.

“It’s alright, it’s okay. It’s fine, love, you’re fine. I’m here.”

DeBlanc’s hands are still shaking, muscle and meat still trying to form around bone as his body furiously tries to rebuild itself. Reinvigoration is a lot harder when hellfire is what burned you, what ripped you apart, but when he finally has skin again it’s with the tan of Texas, it’s his body that was given to him when they first touched down and part of him wonders, perhaps, if this is his body now for good. He touches where he’d been shot. Nothing.

But he can’t think right now. He can’t do anything other than hold Fiore as they scramble to stand, as Fiore stumbles in his arms and chokes on thick black tar as it burbles out of his mouth, as his human body tries to rid itself of the poison of an unfiltered Hell. Even here DeBlanc can see the shiny red of Fiore’s muscles before they’re ribboned and then covered by new skin, and he catches a glimpse of a birthmark.

He doesn’t quite understand what’s happening until he smells it, until the acrid stench of burnt flesh and hair and feathers hits his nose and his stomach turns.

“I’m here, my love,” he says frantically, and they fall to the floor together, DeBlanc’s twitching arms wrapped tight around a writhing, gasping Fiore. “I’m right here.”

No bus this time, he knows. Fiore breached Hell himself, didn’t take any safe route down. Probably was no safe route down anymore. DeBlanc tugs Fiore into his lap, tries to turn him over but when his quivering hands brush Fiore’s back he lets out a horrific sound, a wail of pain and his nails dig into DeBlanc’s thighs until they feel as if they’ll bleed.

“They’re gone.” The words are gurgling, forced past more black tar and dark blood. “They’re gone--”

“Shhh,” DeBlanc soothes, or rather tries as best as he can. His body is still trying to pull itself back together, organs are settling back into the bit of his belly and hair is growing like weeds along the length of his arms. He thinks back to all the other times they came back from the dead, from such silly human things like broken necks and guns to the face, thinks of when he was ripped into the burning pit of Hell by a bullet buried between his eyes. How easy that had been, compared to this.

Fiore’s fingernails are cracked and bleeding where he’s started clawing at the carpet rather than DeBlanc’s skin, his forehead pressed to the ground as he struggles in DeBlanc’s lap. There are open wounds on Fiore’s back, gaping and horrifying, but there’s no blood. DeBlanc realizes with a faint horror that the blackened, burning skin has been seared shut.

“What did you do,” DeBlanc asks weakly, runs his shaking fingers through Fiore’s sweaty hair in a desperate attempt to calm him. Fiore moans softly at the touch, tries again to lift himself onto his forearms before collapsing again. “Oh, love, no, what did you _do_ \--”

“Only way,” Fiore says through his bloodied teeth, eyes clenched shut and his forehead against the carpet. “I couldn’t-- there wasn’t any other way to get you. I had enough to get down.” He takes another breath, sounds like he’s in agony. “I wasn’t sure I’d come back up.”

DeBlanc can’t tear his eyes away from Fiore’s back, stares where clumps of red fuzzy down are stuck to his sweaty, sticky skin. Fiore is still shaking, strings of blood and tar dripping from between his lips onto the carpet underneath them. DeBlanc shifts him despite the pained moans he gets in return, turns him so that he’s not facedown, so that DeBlanc can slowly scootch back on his arse and lean up against the wall with Fiore securely between the loop of his arms.

When he does finally look up, he realizes that they’re in a motel he doesn’t recognize, their trunk tucked into a corner. They’re both naked, both breathing too hard, and he looks down again to watch as Fiore’s skin finally scabs over and then cracks, leaves shiny skin underneath.

Instead of flawlessly new, however, there are two thick, raised scars on Fiore’s back now. They’re gnarled and ugly, exactly where the root of his wings used to be, and DeBlanc’s breath shudders out of him in a slow exhale. He hitches Fiore more securely onto his lap, leans down and touches their foreheads together.

“What did you do,” he says again, hoarsely, and Fiore huffs.

“I had to.” The words are weak, an attempt at a tease. “You weren’t doing nothing about it.”

DeBlanc’s startled into a laugh, just one bark of something both fond and mirthless, and lets his head thunk back against the wall. When he closes his eyes, the fires of Hell flicker against his lids, so he keeps them open, stares at nothing in particular while he slowly runs his thumb along the nape of Fiore’s neck. Sweat dries, and so does blood, and still DeBlanc just sits there with his love in his arms, stares at nothing at all.

He doesn’t know how long either of them sit there, but as the light starts to fade through the blinds and the motel room slips into darkness, DeBlanc feels Fiore’s breathing slow. It terrifies him for a second, until he recognizes the rhythmic rise and fall of sleep. He feels exhausted himself, doesn’t want to move, but after a long second he’s able to start to lift, tugs Fiore’s arm over his shoulders and slowly leads him to the beds.

It’s hard work, with very little help from Fiore’s end, but eventually they both manage to get into the bed, with Fiore on his stomach and DeBlanc trying to arrange both of them. Neither of them bothered with clothes because neither of them particularly _care_ right now, and there’s a new heat that’s radiating off of Fiore’s body. It’s different then what he remembers.

“Think that was the last of it,” Fiore mumbles vaguely into the pillow, and DeBlanc looks over at him.

“Last of what, love?”

A weak shrug, an attempt at a smile.

“Angel stuff.”

DeBlanc feels his stomach clench.

“You used it to get me.” It’s not a question.

Fiore nods.

“It was fading. Had to do something before it was all gone. Figured it’d be that.”

“So you’re… fallen?” DeBlanc doesn’t want to ask the question, because he doesn’t want the answer. He doesn’t want to hear that Fiore gave up--gave up everything that he is, everything that he’ll ever be, all of that ridiculousness from so long ago.

“Yes.”

Simple as that, but when DeBlanc looks down at him he sees the fear in Fiore’s eyes, sees the horror of the unknown, sees how truly terrified Fiore is to be human now. Neither of them know where to go from here, but they both know one thing. They can’t return to Heaven now. How that affects getting Genesis back, neither of them know.

Slowly DeBlanc settles into the bed, makes sure that they’re both covered by all the blankets. He flops down onto the pillow, stares up at the spackled ceiling with a feeling of dread that won’t seem to fade no matter how hard he tries. When he closes his eyes, flames are still there. He reaches out, touches the tips of his fingers to the tips of Fiore’s.

“Perhaps we’ll get breakfast in the morning,” he finally says, when Fiore is almost asleep.

Fiore hums at him, eyes closed, and interlocks their hands.

“I’m not drinking any more coffee.”

-

They steal away together during the war, where no one can find them, and DeBlanc takes the angel’s hand between both of his own, both curious and confused.

“Why are you glowing?” He can’t help the bewildered sneer, turns the angel’s hand over to run his finger over the back. The angel gives off a beautiful golden aura, and DeBlanc wonders at the fact that he’s not being burned where he stands.

The angel just scowls at him, but doesn’t take his hand away.

“My essence,” he says snidely. “Grace, the Father called it. All that we are, all that we’ll ever be.”

DeBlanc raises an eyebrow at him, and the angel huffs.

“It’s _me,_ ” he says impatiently. “Fiore. It’s what I am. The glow. That’s me.”

“Fiore?” DeBlanc repeats, and looks down at the angel’s skin again where it rests against his. His skin is black as night, fingernails yellow and gnarled, and for the first time he sees the differences in their appearances. This angel is beautiful, in a way he had never considered.

“Fiore,” the angel repeats, and his tone suggests that he thinks DeBlanc’s a bit daft. “It’s my name.”

DeBlanc hums, raises their hands so that he can press their palms together, slowly links their hands together. The glow doesn’t dim, even against his hand, and Fiore watches the motions with wide, curious eyes. Innocent, maybe, if DeBlanc hadn’t seen him cut a swath through demon troops before.

“Fiore,” he says again. “What would you be if you weren’t Fiore, then? If that’s what makes you glow?”

Fiore wrinkles his nose “What sort of question is that?”

DeBlanc just shrugs.

“Dunno.” He lowers their hands again, but doesn’t let go. “We ain’t got any demon stuff. Was wondering about your angel stuff, is all.”

“Angel stuff,” Fiore repeats under his breath, but to DeBlanc’s surprise he reaches down and lifts their conjoined hands, lifts to eye level and stares at where their fingers have interlocked. “I’d fall.” He looks up at DeBlanc, just a flick of his eyes.

“Fall?”

“That’s what happens to angels when… when they stop glowing, I suppose.” He looks at their hands again, and says, “some fade. Others burn.”

“Which would you rather?” DeBlanc asks curiously.

“I don’t know.” Fiore’s voice is tense. “I don’t exactly think about it. I don’t particularly want to stop being an angel.”

“Oh, it’s not that bad,” DeBlanc teases, and Fiore glares at him. “I’m not an angel, and I get along just fine. I’ll just show you how it’s done.”

“And what will you show me?” Fiore asks snidely, and then yelps when DeBlanc yanks him closer, presses a kiss right up against his lips. It’s cheeky and mischievous, it’s everything a demon’s meant to do, and when the angel pulls away he looks furious and ruffled, wings shaking and cheeks burning a bright red.

DeBlanc just chuckles at him.

“Don’t you worry, my dear. You’ll get the hang of it eventually.”

**Author's Note:**

> before anyone asks: i wrote for supernatural back in the day, and also i love mischievous, shitty little demon deblanc. 
> 
> anyway thanks for reading! ♥


End file.
